


Revelations

by cat_77



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no pale horse, but he knew Death when he saw him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> For the "amnesia" square at hc_bingo.
> 
> * * *

The man was Death. Blood dripped from his fingertips, smeared across his skin, became lost in the whorls of dirt and grease and grime. Darkness covered near every inch of his exposed skin, filled small and growing puddles on the ground. The blackness of his clothing hid the worst of it, but the fabric clung and stuck and reflected in the wrong way, cloying and sticky and hardening as it dried.

Images flooded his mind, the man before him standing tall, murdering, killing when asked, when he felt to do so. Money changed hands, papers and orders and electronic funds and gifts of varying value. He was a killer for hire and damned good at his job. At times enjoyed the work a little too much. At times needed to be stopped before he went too far. 

As if distance mattered. As if a single life wasn't enough. As if a line drawn wouldn't be crossed just because it was there.

He stared into those eyes, unblinking, unmoving, far too close and far too revealing. His side hurt where he lay upon it, pavement and ruin pressed against his skin, yet he still did not dare to shift, did not dare to give the game away. There was movement behind him, a cacophony of noise and action that he knew he should pay attention to even as he knew his eyes could not, should not, leave their target.

The light shifted, glinted off a weapon in the killer's hand and he tightened the hold on the blade he had grappled for moments before, wondered if it would be enough, wondered what the hell he was doing in such a situation in the first place. He stared at the eyes that seemed alight with knowledge withheld, things important and sublime, things that would forever be denied. If the killer surged forth, he was as good as done for. If he gathered what little he had and took out the killer, everything Death knew would be snuffed out with him, and everything he was would be forever changed.

"There he is!" a voice called, another responding in a way he could not hear, could not understand. He wondered what side the voices were on, who they would choose to support and who they would choose to condemn.

He didn't want to die. He may not know much - he didn't know how he got there, didn't know what had led to this moment, this choice before him - but he knew he didn't want to die, to be gone forever. Part of him, larger than he might want to admit even to himself, hoped that whoever approached would decide for him, act for him, kill the killer so that the blood would not stain his hands. 

It was the coward's way out, and he knew it, but it would make things so much cleaner, so much easier. Death would move on, and he could live his life and find his future, whatever and wherever that may be.

There was a scrape of noise, boots against pavement, the crunch of a body against broken glass. A hand on his shoulder tugged insistently, pulled on wounds he had not known he had. A boot kicked the debris away before he was turned, forced away from his silent standoff to rest uncomfortably on his aching back.

"Clint?" the voice asked. It was male, wrought with concern.

"Barton," the other said, wary, warning, female.

There were hands on his face, cupping and pressing and warm like the puddles, though not as rapidly cooling. They ghosted downward, ignored the tackiness and tears, felt for every bone, every ligament fingers could reach. They finally returned to where they began, his skull screaming at the abuse they offered and they prodded and came away stained and soiled.

He closed his eyes against it. Against the pain and the concerned faces of the man in blue and the woman in black. "He has a head wound," the woman announced, and he knew this, understood why it made sense.

She released him, fingers now light against his skin, against his throat where his pulse beat madly on. "Do you know who you are?" she asked, concern and fear leaking through her facade. There was too much knowledge there, too much knowing of a truth he did now know.

He opened his eyes and turned his head to the side. Saw the shards of glass, mirrored and bright. Saw the way she crouched over the bloodstained figure of Death. Saw the way Death still stared steadily back at him, wounds to match his own.

Memories surged, and he knew he had seen the woman before. Death and Strife, side by side, clad in black and limned in red while they slaughtered those who would slaughter millions, destroying the destroyers while innocents both cowered and sung their praises.

He cleared his throat, tried to get the words out, watched his reflection do the same. Once certain that the words would come, that he would cement his future and find his past with their utterance, he replied, "I do."

She let out a sigh of relief. 

He did not.

Death smiled in his victory, and he felt his lips return the gesture.


End file.
